


By My Hand Undone

by Windlion



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Dark, M/M, Violence, breaking in the Pitchcest tag, cannot believe I actually wrote this, fearling!Pitch, for the meme, host!Kozmotis, non-con, really really dark, why Pitch can't have nice things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windlion/pseuds/Windlion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kozmotis Pitchiner may have been overwhelmed by the fearlings to become the Nightmare King, but he did not go very far.  Sometimes, Pitch has to put the good general in his place - the only way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By My Hand Undone

**Author's Note:**

> For the meme: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2200.html?thread=2631064  
> Yes, pretty much all of the prompt is in there.  
> I really, really never thought I would write non-con. SO MUCH FOR THAT. Thank you for the kind commenters that convinced me I could own this without too much shame, but I'm still nervous posting this. Please heed the warnings, I really do mean them.

You would think he would have learned by now. It always began the same way: like an itch behind his eyes that he couldn't possibly scratch. And it would build and build, to a throbbing migraine that threatened to overpower him.

Always, always over the treatment of a child.

He sneered. Was it the same doe eyes? The way they cried for their father? Did it bring up memories? You poor thing. Was he too unfair? Too cruel? How troubling it must be to know you could do nothing to comfort their tears.

And he could feel the wrath growing under his skin as his vision tunneled.

Pitch Black was the Nightmare King, but he kept his first and last believer close to his heart.

In a manner of speaking.

Kozmotis Pitchiner believed; he had no choice in the matter, imprisoned in the shell of his former body now warped almost beyond recognition.

Pitch had to give him credit for persistence. The late general never did cease fighting the good fight, even though his failure to capitulate in face of millenia of evidence to the contrary did not speak well of his intellect. Well, it made for an interesting diversion, every now and then.

He faded back to the depths of his lair before black could subsume him. Win or lose, he would never risk leaving his corporeal form vulnerable for what's to follow.

Violence: as usual. Pitch dodged a straight-forward sabre thrust to the heart, tsking, "Too obvious."

This time, the general had set an ambush, in the halls of a palace familiar to his mind. Pitch scoffed at the marble floors and fluted pillars; how unimaginative. Kozmotis could have made their battleground anything, anywhere, and he chose this? When Pitch was the first to set the field of battle in their mind, he often tried for the fantastic, the horrific, anything that would wrong-foot the poor stoic general. Fields of children's bodies. An unsettling empty void. A brothel.

That had been quite the fun encounter, considering what inevitably happened next.

Of course, the general wouldn't give up quite so easily. Pitch was forced to summon his scythe, catching a strike on the haft and spinning the butt end to strike at Kozmotis's head. The man ducked neatly and pressed his attack, trying for a low thrust.

Pitch felt no obligation to obey the rules of human combat: he simply melted out of the way, reappearing behind one of the many columns. How kind of Kozmotis to give him cover.

The general spun and sank into a wary guarded position. "You can't hide forever."

"Nor do I have to," Pitch agreed genially. He skipped shadows again, striking at Kozmotis's off side. They knew the pattern of each other's attacks well by now; their trade of blows was almost choreographed. In that respect, the general had likely improved during his . . . tenure. Pitch respected the man's combat prowess; there was a reason he had been such a hero, a veteran and survivor of many battles.

But he was only a man. The fight, while entertaining, always only had one outcome.

Pitch surged up from the general's own shadow behind him, seizing his off hand and sweeping the scythe in beneath his sword arm to nestle the blade beneath his chin. He tugged Kozmotis backward, forcing him to raise his head or court the blade against his throat. "Yield."

"Never. Not so long as you breathe." Kozmotis's voice, so very like his own, never waivered.

"Must you be so dramatic?" Pitch sighed, and took Kozmotis's vicious elbow strike against his shoulder. It was an acceptable loss to let the scythe fall away into nothingness in favor of yanking the man hard by his off hand and spinning him to slam shoulders-first against the nearest pillar. The black-haired head bounced off stone; no doubt the good general was stunned for the breath it took Pitch to close in, wrapping his right hand around Kozmotis's long neck and squeezing with more than human strength.

The general's sword dropped involuntarily from nerveless fingers to the floor, its golden metal ringing against the marble. Pitch casually kicked it away, sending it skidding down the hall and ruining any hope of a desperate lunge. He leaned in to watch those blue-grey eyes struggle to focus on him, even still seething.

Pitch casually leaned his weight against his grip, feeling the man's fluttering pulse against one hand and the wrist bones grinding together in the other. "Are the brats really worth the effort? She's long dead, even her bones turned to dust. You're only the poor fool clinging to the memory of some sentimental fantasy of a happy family that never was."

In these moments, it always made him furious that the man's fear never outweighed his wrath and certainty.

Honor. Justice. _Convictions._

Pitch had certainly never seen the use of any of them. Where did they ever get Kozmotis, in the end?

He sighed conversationally. "I'll have to break you of the habit. Eventually."

The Nightmare King released his grip on the golden general's throat enough for him to gasp reflexively, then sealed his own mouth roughly over his to steal the air the man was desperately seeking. He bit his way into the man's mouth, vicious and savoring the panic trying to claw its way out of the man's lungs.

He let up only when he was ready to, pulling back to admire the blood-red lips, the rapid pulse in the long neck, the slim chest heaving for quick breaths, and the elegant hands clutching at the stone pillar behind him for support. Pitch hummed thoughtfully to himself, sending shadows to bind the man's hands precisely where they were and replace his hold. "That's a good look for you, General. _Desperate._ "

Pitch ran his pale fingers over the general's throat, admiring the contrast of golden tan skin and the flush of already-rising bruises. He could feel the man try to swallow, and smirked. "Do you think you're even going to have the voice to beg, this time?"

Kozmotis had already realized he's bound. By this point, there was nothing but the inevitable, and still, the man narrowed his eyes and raised his chin as if to retort. Pitch lashed out with a lazy backhand across one cheekbone, knocking his head aside before he could speak. "None of your impertinence now."

Pitch hooked his taloned hands into the neck of Kozmotis's doublet and tore it open. The man wore all the scars of his long career, souvenirs not duplicated on Pitch's grey hide. He'd be pleased if it didn't seem like Kozmotis was so obscurely proud of them. So he ignored them, in favor of making his own mark. He bit his own favors along the man's collar bones, leaving his hand print to stand alone like a collar of red around his neck.

The man attempted to shy sideways despite his untenable position. Pitch scoffed under his breath and pinned Kozmotis's hips back as he forced a knee between his thighs. "Really, you still think you have a choice?"

Pitch leaned in to purr in Kozmotis's ear, hearing the delicious rasp of breath from his abused throat. "I'll have you here. In the ruins of your uniform in the empty halls of your precious palace.

"You know your memory is all that stands of it, and soon even that will be tainted. And the only one to blame for that is you."

Kozmotis struggled to find his voice, muscles gone tight and breathing quick. Pitch pulled back enough to watch the storm of emotions roil across his face, not quite a mirror of his own. Surely he'd never been so open, so stiff-necked stubborn, so naive.

He decided to do Kozmotis a favor and end the confusion for him, by stripping him of his belts and tearing open the hose clinging to long legs. The doublet and shirt hung open in tatters to display the whipcord chest, the narrow waist. The tall boots, Pitch had no quarrel with, and the man's cloak remained, pinned between his shoulders and the pillar.

Pitch trailed a hand down the exposed skin, tantalizingly light, and smirked to find the man already hard. "Look at you. So debauched."

He closed back in to kiss the general, tauntingly sweet, then watched him with half-lidded eyes. "Have you already started looking forward to this part of our game?"

He wrapped one hand around Kozmotis's arousal, stroking until the man's thighs parted of their own accord and his head tilted back to expose his neck. Pitch cupped his cheek and rubbed a thumb along the reddened cheekbone. "See, this would go so much easier for you if you submitted."

That snapped Kozmotis out of his lull almost immediately with affronted pride. Pitch pressed in between the man's spread legs before he could realize his error.

Pitch smirked, meeting the startled and renewed glare. "But it would be so much less fun."

He slipped his fingers into the general's mouth, pressing against his tongue expectantly. Kozmotis seethed, obviously tempted to bite, but he knew this was as close to mercy as Pitch would offer. Pitch wouldn't ask twice.

He waited until the man lathed his long fingers, then pulled his hand away with a wet pop that sounded obscene in the echoing hall. Pitch cut off Kozmotis's hoarse attempt at a reply with a harsh kiss, swallowing his cries as he opened him roughly with two fingers and no preamble. He saw no reason to wait; he ached to take the man.

Pitch slid his hand free, then hauled the man's legs higher around his waist. For all his fight, the general wrapped his legs around him willingly as Pitch pushed into him. Kozmotis was almost painfully tight, but Pitch wasn't slow. He snapped his hips forward, startling a rough cry from the general.

Pitch hid his smirk by nipping the man's earlobes, and set about making the hall echo with almost strangled noises wrung from the general's unwilling throat. Whatever Kozmotis's intentions, his body betrayed him; he came first, trapped between Pitch's punishing thrusts and the pillar of his own design. Pitch held his hips tight with bruising force as he finished, listening to the delicious breathless moans.

Still seated deep in him, Pitch purred, "Checkmate, General. What _would_ she think of you now?"

He waited until the proper despair crossed Kozmotis's face before he pulled away roughly. He dropped the man's bonds, watching him slump slowly to the floor. Pitch straightened his robes, willing himself clean and impeccable, every inch the Nightmare King once more, then turned and walked in even steps down the hall made of memory.

"Good game, Kozmotis. I do so look forward to next time."

Because they both knew, there was always a next time.


End file.
